CHHS's Literary Magazine
Iris Hill
You, oh, you, you have always stayed too true Too true to the dumb lies you tend to spew Is it me or is it you? No I know you. You lied to make me unable to grow But I did so anyway finding a home in myself. I made peace with your syndrome Why lie? What does it do? Do you not think? No, but I do. I cry soft tears and shrink My weak heart breaks “too easily” you say I want to cry heavy tears so I pray I pray for a new beginning but no You say “please stay,” when you want me to go. My mind feels too messy to work all night It is as if something is not alright The doctor said I have borderline and I do not wish to be easily shunned I can not believe your lies anymore You and your games are nothing but a bore Everyone says I am bit too sick You have not left, I want it to be quick You are no bad liar, only I am It would be better as strangers, so scram I am a liar, I hate hurting but sometimes, it feels too good, getting a cut.
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By Suzy Wynn
There was a lady long ago, She was my happiness, She walked and talked by my side, And greeted me with a kiss, I tried to tell her from my heart, That forever would be us, But in the end I figured that, She would leave me in the dust. So why did I believe she was mine, Our hearts were entwined gradually faded in time, Ever since then I tried to Forget about the things we did, Her face forever in my mind, The goodbye she never bid, I tried to fix my broken heart, With a single thread of trust, But in the end I figured that, My heart would bite the dust. So why did I believe I could try, Adoration was gone in the blink of an eye, There was never an us, But me and my distrust, There was a young boy long ago, His heart lacked happiness, He walked and talked but inside, He just wanted to quit, Life was none but unfair, The trials broke his soul, But in the end he figured that, He had to carry on, So why did I believe I could try, My efforts were in vain and I'll never reach the sky, My happiness left me dry I just want to die, So why did I believe I could try. By Suzy Wynn
“You dot your i’s with hearts?” “Yea, what’s wrong with that?” “Nothing! Just wondering why because the last time I read your handwriting, those hearts weren’t there.” “Well, the way I write changes from time to time depending on what scenario I’m in.” Cody looked at me incredulously, tilting his blonde head to the side like the whole world weighed it down. I fought the urge to laugh out loud at how he exaggeratingly furrowed his brows and flicked his wrist like a sassy manicurist. “Why would you need to change your own handwriting, Amy?” His question was answered with a simple shrug of my shoulders. I never knew why I tweaked with my handwriting style, it seems that I was never comfortable with the ones that I stuck with. In the end, I stuck my tongue out at my companion playfully. “Same reason you change your clothes everyday - gotta keep fresh.” He didn’t bother replying and continued to read over the papers I gave him. I stared at him, smiling at how much he’s grown. Cody and I have been friends since diapers, we’ve lived in the same neighborhood for as long as I could remember. Despite our ability to visit each other at any time, both of our schedules were hecticly different. He was swamped with college applications and senior year activities, while I was still behind in my work - prepping for the SATs and collecting my volunteering hours. From what I’ve heard from his parents, he was accepted into a number of colleges but still hadn’t decided which one he wanted to attend because he was still weighing his options or whatever. I didn’t care all that much because I knew Cody knew what was best for him in the end. At the moment, we were laying around on the plush carpet of my bedroom with our school binders sprawled out around us. I had him come over to peer edit my english essay and finish up whatever work he hadn’t finished over the vacation. We were both propped up on rather obnoxiously large stuffed animals that I’ve accumulated over the years as an honorary collector of stuffed animals; aka, gifts from my beloved grandparents. I leaned backward into the plush belly of a humongous teddy bear while sifting through the list of items I had to accomplish before winter break was over. I pursed my lips in irritation at the fact that teachers even bothered to assign homework over the vacation. I must have been mumbling to myself outloud because Cody responded to me almost immediately. “Because they like to give more work than necessary, plus you’re a senior.” “You’re a senior too! Besides, what does my grade year have to do with anything?” I huffed, “it’s the type of teacher you get that dictates how much work you get.” “While that is true, you gotta remember that if you suffer more the pay-off and relief is much better.” “But at the cost of student mental health?” Cody looked at me, blinking his soft blue eyes thoughtfully. This time it was him who shrugged his shoulders with a low hum. He pulled a red pen out of the pencil pouch he borrowed from me and began marking my papers. “It’s a student’s job to be able to juggle the workload. At the same time, it’s a teacher’s job to teach and care for their pupils.” “And you think that teachers overloading us with schoolwork while we suffer under the pressure to be the absolute best we can be is “caring?” I retorted dryly, checking items off my objective list. “Well… not “caring” necessarily, but sometimes the work we get is actually useful. Y’know, helps us understand the material better?” “That’s true…” I trailed off, “but some teachers don’t really care for their students. They only give out work whenever they feel like it to spite students, the absolute worst ones show favoritism.” “What’s wrong with favoritism?” He piped. “Everything.” I growled underneath my breath, memories of an excruciatingly painful class I had in the past reeled through my mind. I could still feel anxiety buzz around the pit of my stomach everytime I entered the classroom and the ridiculing gaze of my teacher weighing my shoulders down. I could still feel myself quaking in nervousness and being scolded for the littlest things. I remembered breaking down hysterically in the bathroom and collapsing from the lack of sleep, all of my efforts toward appeasing the teacher who hated me ended in vain. I was glad that he was fired. Cody seemed to know what I was thinking about and placed a hand on my knee, squeezing it reassuringly with a gentle smile. “Well… sometimes favoritism is unavoidable. I don’t think it necessarily matters now, but you should really try and make friends with your teachers. These sorts of relationships come with their perks, Amy.” I shook my head, watching as he removed his palm from my leg. He resumed with marking over the papers. “How can I do that when I always feel like they hate me?” “You never know until you try and utter that single hello. I mean, if I was your teacher I most definitely wouldn’t hate you.” “Psh,” I smiled sheepishly with the roll of my eyes, “that’s because it’s you. I KNOW you don’t hate me.” “Yea you do.” I chuckled lightly at his response and swatted at him, feeling a bashful heat rush to my cheeks. “That doesn’t mean that other teachers are the same! Who knows, maybe even Mrs. Cowbell secretly loathes me with a burning passion.” “Mrs. Cowbell? She’s so nice!” Cody looked at me with wide eyes like I committed some sort of crime. With a shrug of my shoulders, I set down the notepad and pulled one of my binders towards me. I flipped through it to check if everything was in order. “I don’t know, I always feel awkward around her.” “You feel awkward around everyone, Ames.” “You’re an exception, I trust you.” The blonde sat in silence at my words, I figured he was contemplating something but I was occupied with organizing my binders. I heard him set aside my essay and pen; he shifted towards me. It wasn’t until I felt two hands rest on my shoulders that I focused on the oceanic irises that gazed at me with a sense of commiseration. I hated when he looked at me like that, he seemed ten thousand times wiser and I was some sort of child under his care. Technically, our relationship could be summed up by that comparison alone. “Amy, you have to trust others too.” “I do! I trust you, grandpa, grandma, Julia, Brad, Jeremy, and a lot of people!” I replied defensively, half-tempted to push him away. I knew I couldn’t, he’d end up preaching to me either way. I kept eye-contact, my pride unyielding to the intensity in his expression. We engaged in a short-lived staring contest before Cody broke away, his hands enveloping me in a warm embrace. He always did this sort of thing whenever he wanted to give me advice, he’d keep me in his arms for as long as he could while I just laid there, feeling somewhat blessed to have an openly affectionate friend like him. “Amy, you’re not indestructible and you know that. You can’t live out the rest of your life in a shell.” He said to me, both of us sinking into the stuffed teddy I sat on. A sigh breathed from my lips. I sat still, silent. “I know how that teacher affected your view of educators forever, but not all of them are despicable like him. You know that already. Don’t you remember Mr. Jittle? He was really nice. Even if he was our elementary school teacher, he was still very kind and thoughtful of all of his students.” “Yea. I know.” “He was the reason I decided to become an educator.” “You want to become a teacher?” “Yea, I’ve always liked teaching. Working with others and getting them to understand how things work always gave me a feeling of accomplishment.” “Wouldn’t you have to deal with a crap ton of schoolwork to grade though?” “Psh, yea I do. That’s why I plan to give out more projects, no homework for my class no-no-no.” I laughed at the odd nasally voice he used to accentuate the no’s. I leaned my head into his chest, my thoughts traveling to what point he was trying to make with the mention of our old elementary school teacher. I never knew that Cody wanted to become a teacher, he was always into the latest technology that I assumed with would have gone down a path of engineering or game design. Heck, I thought he would have dived straight into the path to become a translator with all the languages he took. Three languages: Spanish, French, and Arabic. I have no idea how he took up Arabic, but apparently he did. With all the skills he required, it seemed to make a lot of sense now. He continued to tell his story. “Anyways, remember that small presentation that Mr. Jittle gave us a couple weeks before we graduated into middle school?” I licked my lips, trying to recall what he was talking about. Faint echoes of words and shards of images flew through my head, but none of them seemed familiar. I shook my head. “Not at all.” “It was the one about how to prepare for middle and high school, including how to decide our future careers and whatnot.” Realization snapped my fingers and widened my eyes with a familiarity that Cody sensed. “Ohh! I think I remember that one.” Mr. Jittle really was one of the nicest teachers I’ve ever had. He was kind of old, but that didn’t stop him from playing ball games and running laps with us during recess. He often handed out candies to students who liked to participate and encouraged everyone to speak up because he appreciated the effort. In many ways, Cody’s personality reflected Mr. Jittle’s. They were both kind, thoughtful, and gentle people. They shared the same friendly atmosphere and were very approachable people, not intimidating at all. However, Mr. Jittle was definitely more mature than Cody by a ten fold. When we were on our way to entering the sixth grade, he was the one who warned us about what things to be careful of. At the same time, he was very happy to encourage us to have fun in our youth and stressed safety over everything else. “Yea, everyone was just motivated to become something they thought was cool. But then he mentioned that you could be inspired by someone or something to take up a certain career path.” Cody recalled, seemingly lost in his memories. “I like to think that Mr. Jittle was the one who inspired me to become a teacher, after all I wanted to become someone loved and happy like him.” I couldn’t help but smile at his genuinity. “He really was the nicest person ever. I don’t doubt that you will become loved by a lot of people, even if you’re not a teacher. I mean you technically already are.” I could feel his arms tighten around me, his chin moved to rest on the top of my head. “Coming from you, that means a lot.” I heard him whisper. I couldn’t help but be confused at what he meant by that, but decided to leave it aside. “Anyway… what was the point you were trying to make, Cody?” He didn’t answer for a few seconds, which made me feel slightly awkward. “I was just gonna say that you’re really not alone. You may think that you are, but in actuality there are hundreds of people that could relate to you. On many levels deeper than just one, no one can be truly alone until all presence of human is lost. You’re capable of trusting others besides me, you know. If people like Mr. Jittle and Mrs. Cowbell exist, then without a doubt there are other people - teachers like them. Even if they won’t all be exactly the same, it only takes a conversation to know them a little better. You may be surprised that one or two of them relate to you more than you think.” His words had a rippling effect, a heavy stone dropped through the surface of a once still pond. I uttered a small “okay.” I felt Cody’s embrace squeeze me comfortably, I ended up returning his affection. I wound up hugging him back, his words always moved me to the point where I just wanted to hold him forever so I couldn’t lose him. “You’re inspiring, Cody.” The vibration of his chuckle was felt from his chest. “You too, Amy, you too.” Moments of silence passed with our bodies entwined, just thinking about a variety of things. I wondered what Cody was thinking about, whether he could feel the same comfort I felt from him, if he was ready to go to college or not. Instead of letting these thoughts bubble out of my mouth like a boiling cauldron, I unweaved my body from his. My eyes met his dazed expression with a smile. “Let’s get back to work.” By Suzy Wynn
If there was one person I would risk my entire life for, one person that would be worth it all, it would be my one and only mom. As the oldest and only daughter in the family, I was taught certain things from my mother. How to be myself, how to appreciate the things around me, how to not commit wrongs and instead do what is best for the family, and how to be strong - especially for my younger brothers. She’s not a woman to take lightly just because she’s so very polite and hospitable on the outside, she’s the epitome of what a good mom should be. I’m not saying that she’s the perfect mother or anything, she has her imperfections and does annoy me from time to time. She’s not too overbearing or strict with household rules, she’s stern when she has to be, and is not afraid to be goofy when we’re by ourselves. She also has the tendency to nag a lot - a trait which I have seemed to pick up from her when I’m with my brothers, she does not hesitate to point out all my imperfections, and will snap at me - which is another thing I tend to do when I’m with certain people. In the end, I love her and I would devote my loyalty and entire life just for her and my brothers. A distinct memory of mine from when I was in elementary school was with my mother. We had sat down at the kitchen table, it’s still foggy in my mind but I remember her teaching me how to draw a table. It was my first and last time being taught how to draw by my mom. Each stroke of her pencil was fluid and her solid lines formed a parallelogram. In my eyes at the time, it was boring since I wanted to draw actual people and whatnot. When I look back on it, I think that was the moment I began to notice all these little details in objects around me. She added depth to the table and other decorations to it, a tablecloth and a vase with little flowers sprouting from the top. She looked at me and told me to copy her drawing step-by-step. I did as she told and found myself frustrated, because it didn’t look as lovely as hers. Each of my attempts ended up in jagged and harsh angles that never seemed to match up either because the surface of the quadrilateral I drew was too thin or because I made the lengths too long. Still, my mom praised me for trying and patiently repeated her steps as I followed. My last try at drawing the table was perfect, even though there was a shady looking tablecloth and almost-dead flowers in a misshapen vase. Mom ran a hand through my hair and said “good job, my daughter.” I felt really happy at her words and strived to impress her even more. I never really got to spend much time with her after that day, but she was there for every accomplishment I achieved. My elementary graduation ceremony, my first play performance in middle school, and maybe she will be present for my high school graduation. All I know is that my mother was literally there behind me as I grew up. She birthed me, bathed me, and fed me while struggling to earn money to keep the family together. I had my dad too, but my mom took care of me most of the time along with each of my brothers. It’s kind of a shame, even though I love her so much I never seem to appreciate all the little things she does for me. When I’m feeling down, she asks me what’s wrong and knows when to leave me alone. I think because of her, I grew accustomed to crying very silently so she wouldn’t notice. I wanted to become able to mask my negative emotions properly so she wouldn’t think that there was anything wrong with me - that I was fine most of the time. One thing I like most about my mom is that she manages to stabilize fairly quickly. Not like brushing things off her shoulders, but she somehow gets through a tough time without dwelling on the situation too much. After her father’s death, I remember seeing her bawling her eyes out one weekday morning just as I was about to head to school. She received a phone call from her brother and the news completely broke her. She weeped and sobbed as she curled into her arms, I didn’t even know what to so I began to cry with her. I wasn’t able to do anything to help console her, so I just screamed with her. When I look back on this memory, I realize that my mom hadn’t seen her father in years since she came to America with my dad. My grandfather really wanted to see me and my brothers, but he passed away before his wish could really become true. I think that’s kind of what struck me the most after his death. My mom grieved for a week or two. She would just be lying in bed quietly, staring at the walls in deep thought. She spoke to me about my grandpa very briefly before my dad shooed me away. I didn’t talk to her much when she was in that state, my child self wasn’t able to properly empathize with her so I dallied in other things to keep myself occupied. My mother was not able to attend the funeral, so for day she was just praying in silence. She began to speak more often and worked around the house, but I think she was still depressed. After the whole month passed, she was back to her naggy self. She’s the type of person that carries burdens by herself, never one to ask for help when she really needs it. What she felt at that time, I don’t think she had anyone to go to for reassurance. I wished that I had just embraced her and told her that everything was gonna be okay instead of sitting there at her side crying. She’s all well nowadays, but busy as ever. My mom always had a huge interest in plants, we have a small garden in our backyard because of her hardwork and dedication. There are also some potted flowers in our front yard as well, all of the seeds she planted grew nicely since she watered them everyday. When I’m the kitchen, looking at the small garden from the window above the sink, I get a very happy feeling in the pit of my stomach because it looked small, yet very pretty. Unlike the plainness of my front yard, the back of my house had a large tree surrounded by gardening materials and even more potted plants. My mother took time and effort into her caring for her plants and I would not have it like any other way, because she took time and effort caring for her children in the same way. My mom is a really special figure in my life, I love her to the point where I want to be successful just for her sake and the rest of my family. She has qualms about her appearance, but I will always find her to be the prettiest mom in my eyes. She says to me that I should be happy, but her happiness has become my own. The majority of my love and respect goes to my mom, because she is both my role model and precious family member. She’s given me many things that I have taken for granted, abused, and thrown away, but I’ve realized overtime that everything that she works towards is providing for my entire family. She holds unyielding faith for her children and pushes each of us to be better than what we are. That is why I would do anything in the world to make her happy. By Gabriela Warner
It felt like I was falling. That’s not at all what I thought dying would feel like. I thought it would be more like soul crushing, heart stopping fear. Well, I guess that’s what it was like in the movies. I thought I would see my life flash before my eyes. But instead I’m here. “And where is here, exactly?” I ask. I can really only see blinding white light, until a figure stands in front of me. A hand comes from the figure and pulls me up. The world tilts and I feel like I’m falling all over again. “This,” a voice says, “is your afterlife.” I blink a couple times and wait to adjust to the blinding light before I see him. I squint my eyes, unsure. “Even in death I see hallucinations?” I ask. He smiles. It’s the same smile. “No, Percy,” he says. “Here, take a seat.” He holds my arm and drags me to a seat. I look around in shock. “Is this a movie theater?” I ask. He sits me down and I look him in the face. “Why do you look like me? Where am I?” “Do you remember how you got here?” he asks, ignoring my questions. I try to think back to what happened last. Everything feels fuzzy, like when you’re drunk and can’t quite remember where your car keys are. My mind seems jumbled and everything feels like a lucid dream. He places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright, Percy,” he says. “It will come back soon.” I shake my head. “What is this?” I demand. “You haven’t answered any of my questions. Where am I? Why do you have my face? What’s going on?” He smiles. “I knew you were stubborn seeing you on the screen, but actually meeting you is like a whole other experience.” “What are you talking about?” “This,” he spreads his arms out, “is your afterlife. You’re dead, Percy. And this is where you come when you die.” “And what? You’re an angel or something to show me heaven? Is heaven a movie theater?” My eyes squint. “Am I even in heaven? Is this hell? This has to be hell.” “No, Percy,” he replies. “I wouldn’t call it heaven. More like just where you go when you die. There’s no God here - at least he hasn’t shown up here. We watched you for your whole life and when you die you join us.” “Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean ‘we’? Who else is here?” He scratches his head. “I’m getting to that. Just let me-” “Hey, Perce! Are you done talking to the kid?” A voice yells from a distance. A figure walks up to us with a smirk on his face. My eyes widen. “There’s another me?” I shout. “How many are there?” The other me rolls his eyes. “So I take it Perce is a bit slow in explaining.” Perce gives him a glare. “Look, if you don’t like the way I’m doing it, then why don’t you? You seem to think you know everything anyways. Go right ahead, Perseus!” My eyebrows shoot up. “Perseus?” I ask. “My name isn’t Perseus. It’s just Percy. Why the hell-” “We gotta differentiate between all the Percys, kid,” Perseus says. “I was first one here. I’ve been here for the longest.” He smiles. “I’m the original.” Perce sighs. “There you go scaring the kid again,” he says. “Why do you have to do this every time? Just let me-” “You still haven’t explained what this is,” I interrupt. “I understand that I’m dead or whatever, but why are we in a movie theater? What am I doing here? And how come I can’t remember what happened before?” Perseus waves a hand. “It’ll come back to you in a little while. Just relax, kid.” He pauses. “Does this place look familiar to you?” A wave of nostalgia hits me like a truck, and I’m not sure what I was expecting. I look around and remember. “This is the old Franklin downtown that I used to go to all the time,” I say. Waves of remembrance come back to me. “I went on my first date here. With Danielle.” Perseus perks up. “Danielle,” he says. “She was lovely. I didn’t quite understand that whole thing she was going through. She was a girl, and then she was a boy. Call me old fashioned, but it doesn’t make that much sense.” I’ve been through this before, I think. “Danny,” I say softly. “Danielle became Danny. I went out with Danny.” Perce takes a step towards me. “So you’re beginning to remember, huh?” He says. I nod slowly. “Only bits and pieces. I remember Danielle - Danny. I remember Danny. He was…” the love of my life, I think to myself. Perce places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “Do you remember what happened when you died?” Images flash before my eyes and I can’t tell them all apart. I blink before speaking. “We were going to see his family for the holidays,” I say. “He wanted me to be there to calm them down when he told them about about him. We were driving and then…” I trail off. I remember the lights of the truck before it hit us. I remember it hitting the passenger side first and watching Danny’s neck snap. I go a bit wobbly and try to grab onto something. “Th-the truck. There-there was a truck. It h-hit us. I couldn’t stop it.” Perce pulls me up. “Hey, it’s not your fault,” he says. “The truck was speeding. You couldn’t have known.” “B-but it was-” “No,” Perseus says from behind Perce. “Listen to me, Percy. If you dwell too much about what you ‘could have done’ then you’ll be miserable for eternity. Don’t let it eat at you.” It takes everything in me to speak. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” I say quietly. “One thing you should know,” he says avoiding eye contact, “is that all of us die in similar ways with little things different. We all die around the same age. All of us die with a loved one. And we all beat ourselves up about it.” Perce shakes his head. “Perseus, he’s been here for less than 20 minutes. He’s allowed to grieve.” He sighs. “Whatever,” he grumbles. “It’s your turn to do introductions. I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m gonna go get the rest of them.” I try not to shake and grab harder onto Perce. “Others?” I question. “There are more of you?” He nodded. “There’s seven of us,” he says. “Eight now, including you.” “Hold on a second,” I say a bit too harshly. “This is too much. I just remembered I died and that Danny is dead somewhere too-” I stop mid sentence. “Wait, can I see Danny? If he’s dead too can I-” “Not for a while, kid.” I turn around to find another me. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble to myself. “And which one are you?” He sticks out a hand. “The name’s Perry,” he says with a smile. I quirk an eyebrow. “Perry?” I ask. “I swear, the names get stranger and stranger.” His smile only gets bigger. “It’s what my ma used to call me,” he explains. “It stuck up until the end.” He pats me as if I’m a child. “Look, kid, I know it’s tough to wrap your head around at first but-” I scoff. “‘Wrap my head around?’ I’ve gone completely mad! This is absolutely insane! How can any of this be actually happening? My dad was right. I’m going crazy. This is all some crazy dream. I never got in an accident, Danny’s not dead. I’m gonna wake up in my bed and go to that crappy high school and see my stupid friends and-” I choke and before I know it I’m on my knees sobbing. Everything coming at me is too much for me to take. “I just need to find Danny. Just let me go find Danny. Please.” Perry’s eyes go soft. “Percy…” he trails off. “Danny’s dead. We all saw it.” “How?” I yell. “You all sit here and give me vague answers and then yell at me for not understanding! How did you see? How do you know everything?” Perry looks at Perce. “Does he recognize this place?” He asks him. Perce only smiles sadly. “Yeah,” is all he replies with. Perry looks back at me. “It’s a movie theater for a reason,” he says, as if that answers every single question. “And what’s the reason?” I ask impatiently. He looks at Perce then back at me. “You know all those stories about when you die you get to watch your life back?” He pauses as if to get an answer. “Sure?” I say. “Well it’s kind of like that,” he goes on. “Except you get to watch your next life with all of your past lives. We all come here when we die. As more of you die, the more there are here.” “So you’re telling me that we’re stuffed in a movie theater for eternity?” I ask. He looks up. “Well, no…” He looks like he’s scrambling for words before he speaks again. “You’re allowed to see people from your life. As long as they’re also dead. But only after you’ve settled on everything. So you can see Danny. Just not now. But the faster the both of you settle, the faster the both of you can see each other.” I could feel my stomach drop. “I can see Danny?” He nods. “Once you’re settled, yes.” I whip around to Perce. “Why didn’t you just start with that?” I ask. “If you went with that first then maybe this wouldn’t be such a mess!” Perry laughs. “Seriously, Perce. Listen to the kid.” “It’s not my fault!” Perce exclaims. “Perseus came and ruined it. I was doing perfectly fine until he barged in!” “Yeah, well he’s an asshole.” I scoff. “He’s a dick. I don’t care if he was first or whatever. How could the first one be such a terribly annoying person?” There’s a creak behind me and I turn. Another me walks from across the room. “You guys talking about Perseus and you didn’t invite me?” He said with a smile. Perry laughs. “Ah, Bart!” he says. “Bart?” I ask. “That’s not even close to Percy.” He rolls his eyes. “I was the only one smart enough to just go by my middle name,” he replies. “It’s short for Bartholomew. It was a family name.” He extends a hand towards me. “So you’re Percy. Man, it’s weird meeting the new you. I was the one who died before you. I died in the 90’s. The best age. You happened immediately after. Apparently that doesn’t usually happen.” I don’t know what to say. “Okay?” He smiles. “You’re a lot like me. Besides the obviousness of us being the same person, we were born closer together. They were all spaced out. Perseus has been here for hundreds of years. It’s only been about 20 years for me. But it’s chill.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is just a lot to take in. And you talk a lot.” He smile only grows. “Yeah, that’s what the rest of them tell me.” Perce moves closer to me. “I think that’s enough for today, Percy,” he says to me. “I can only imagine how much this is.” “Wait, can I see Danny first?” I ask. Perce looks at Perry and he nods. “I’ll go see him later today to see how he’s doing,” Perry says. “You two aren’t allowed to see each other yet.” I sigh. “Okay,” I mumble. “Okay, thanks.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “No problem, kid.” Perce presses a hand in my back and starts to push us up the stairs towards the door. “I think that’s enough for today,” he says. “Go sleep on it. Your room is just in to the left.” He leads me to what looks just like my bedroom. My knees wobble as I walk towards the twin bed. The minute I hit the pillow I’m out. I fall asleep to my face and the thought of seeing Danny. By Gabriela Warner
The summer sun was bright Flowing into living room And with the silhouette of light There was a change of mood The fog was slowly crawling From over the city wide My eyes were no more bawling I decided I will not hide Let your tears dry from your face I’ll hold you in a warm embrace I stood from the floor and watched As the sun kissed the pink sky Clouds dotted the skies like a blotch And to the tears I said goodbye The beat of your heart rang in my ears The sound of your voice on the tip of my tongue I won’t let my life be ruled by fears And look to you as if you hung the sun Let your tears dry from your face I’ll hold you in a warm embrace I won’t let your hands in my hair Your love was never so fair You were a demon in my head That I listened to without regret But for now it’s time for you to go to bed For you are forever in my debt I am not yours And you are not mine It’s time for me to close the door For we are out of time Let my tears dry from my face I’ll hold me in a warm embrace Let my tears dry from my face I’ll hold me in a warm embrace Gabriela Warner
Drago Creative Writing 2 October 2017 Olivia “We’re not friends,” we both say at the same time. We look at each other with squinted eyes because this always happens. The talking at the same time, that is. Whether it’s intentional or not. “She’s my older sister,” Olivia says. Because she’s the one who does the talking for both of us in social situations. It’s an unspoken thing. “By how much?” the lady asks. She’s looking between us now, most likely trying to figure out how I’m older. Olivia has the demeanor to look older. Usually the older one talks for the younger one. That’s not what it’s like between us. Olivia understands. The lady does not. “Three years,” I decide to say. The lady looks at me in shock. By now she isn’t expecting me to say anything. Neither was Olivia. She had the full intention of speaking for me. But the way the lady is looking at me makes me want to speak. She has a hesitant smile work its way up her face. “How lovely,” she says before walking away. Olivia turns to me, probably about to talk bad about the lady who clearly could not tell that we have to same nose as most people say. She’s got that disgusted look on her face, the same look that I give very often, and I wonder how it was that the lady could not tell that we were related. “She was rude,” she finally says. She’s trying to make me feel better. She knows I get annoyed when people think she’s the older one. They always think I’m twelve. They always think Olivia is in high school. “Whatever,” I say, because I don’t feel like talking about this right now. It happened, and I would like to move on from it. “We gotta stop talking at the same time, though,” she says. I can tell there’s a smile on her face. “It makes people think you’re copying me. Obviously I’m the cooler one.” That’s how it is with us. Standing up for each other and less than two minutes later we’re bickering. Our mom hates it. She says a sister is supposed to be a best friend. We like to tell her that we were forced together and never wanted a sister. I joke about how before she was born I had an imaginary brother. Olivia scowls at me when I talk about it. She talks about wanting an older brother to protect her. When I try to tell her that’s most definitely not what an older brother would do, she just scoffs. But at the end of the day she’s like my other half. Even though we’re super different. Sure, she’s got a ton of friends and plays sports at her middle school and just an all around social person. And I may be the literal opposite: a homebody who only has a few very close friends that I hang out with, but we work. She’s better with the talking so she talks. I’m better at the problem thing, so she comes to me whenever she needs advice. It’s a symbiotic relationship. We didn’t used to be like that. We were always down each other’s throats when we were younger. She used to follow me around and I couldn’t stand it. She always wanted to hang out with my friends and cry about it when I said no, and I hated that she was the parent favorite just because she was younger. I felt like she was getting everything she wanted just by throwing a few tantrums. I didn’t like that I couldn’t do that. She always seemed like everyone’s favorite; she got more money on her birthdays, relatives always talked about how cute she was, and she always had a lot more friends than me. She was Ms. Popular. But we got older. We matured. She’s thirteen now and I’m sixteen. We got passed that stage of our lives; Olivia is her own person now. There were certain things that happened that brought us back together. Our parents were pressuring us more about the future, the world started rooting against us, and people just seemed more on edge with everything. We started to realize that we couldn’t keep going the way we were. It was another unspoken thing between us; it was us against the world. Of course there are still days where I want to tear her head off with my bare teeth. We’re sisters; there are going to be times where we never want to talk to each other again just because one of us kept poking the other. It’s mutual. Our mom hates days like that. Those are the days where she would give us the lecture that sisters are supposed to be lifelong friends. To which we both blow off and then end up laughing about it ten minutes later. The hate never last long. At the end of the day I love her. Of course I would never tell her that. Her ego is big enough, I don’t need to inflate it anymore. When I told Olivia I was writing about her for creative writing, the biggest smile appeared on her face. “I knew you actually liked me,” she said. She pushed me off the couch then and said, “Tell everyone how cool I am. You can lie a little to make me sound cooler. I don’t care. Also make me sound taller than you.” (She is not taller than me.) At the time I didn’t really know how I would describe her. I knew I would talk about her as my sister, but I wanted to talk about her as a person as well. I wanted to get it just right; I wanted her to be happy with what I wrote. I told her I would let her read it when it’s done. I just hope she likes it. And now in this very moment as I sit here writing this, I look across the table and see my sister doing math homework singing off-key to a Coldplay song. She keeps asking me for help with her homework. I have no idea how to help her. “Why are you staring at me?” She asked. “I’m writing you’re thing,” I replied. She smiled. “Keep writing then,” she said. “Make me cool.” By Melissa Cornwell
This is a world where science and religion are at war. This war is not only taking place in the streets, between people with college degrees and those holding large and Bible quoting signs. It is also inside the hearts of people, torn between that which they can see and prove, and the God in whom they believe. Many people seem to believe that these two ideas, that of scientific fact and that of God, cannot be combined. That they can only exist in opposition and not harmony. It is possible to place faith in both science and God. One of the ways to believe in both sides of the argument is to not take the Bible literally. In fact, contrary to appearances, almost everyone doesn’t take the Bible literally in its entirety. Otherwise, most groups of Christians would be killing people with rocks, refusing to wear polyester clothing, and selling their children in exchange for goats. This being the case, taking the story in which the world is created in seven days as a metaphor for evolution, guided by God but still following the rules of science, isn’t such a great leap. People are willing to believe that God created everything and everyone and that he has performed miracles beyond belief, and yet cannot fathom that he could have based his creation on scientific principles. They argue that if God had created science then that would have been what was written in the Bible. The counter to this point is, do they really expect ancient peoples to have been able to fully understand hundreds of years of scientific discovery dumped on them all at once? Would it not make more sense for Him to explain it briefly through metaphor and then focus on what was actually the important part of the whole book? How to act like a good person and treat everyone else with kindness and respect. The kindness and respect that is the focus of the entire New Testament. That kindness and respect is the very first thing to go out the window when people start arguing over creation versus evolution. An argument that will never be solved and one in which most have firmly chosen the evolutionary side. A belief that does not require atheism to follow. The second commandment, “thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,” the one that says, next to loving God, loving others is the most important thing. (As in if you're going to get anything out of this book, it is that you should love others.) This part of the Bible is so often ignored. On the other hand, one or two line from one book of the Old Testament get put on t-shirts, to protest marriages that won’t affect the wearers of said t-shirts in the slightest. Everyone has their own reasons for believing what they do where religion and its relationship to science are concerned. Personally, I believe in science because I can see it, I can prove it, and I can manipulate the universe in a predictable fashion using it. I believe in God for more complex reasons. The story of my religious belief is an interesting one. My parents did not attend church when I was little. My friend in second grade, invited me to her church one Sunday. I went that week and another week and then my seven-year-old self decided that church was something that I wanted to do. So my family started going to the same church that my dad had gone to when he was a child. My parents had been married there. From the time I was seven, my family went to church most Sundays. I started missing more Sundays as my homework load increased and I was able to stay home by myself, but still attended fairly often. I have, over the course of my life, had a few strange occurrences that have confirmed for me the existence of God. When I was around twelve, my parents for various reasons decided that I had to switch the barn where I was taking horse riding lessons. I was very upset at this and decide to pray for 30 minutes straight that I would not have to switch barns. My final addition to this was that if I was supposed to switch barns to wake me up in the morning with snow. I was woken up that morning by my mother informing me that there was snow on the roofs of the houses and that I was switching barns. This turned out to be a very good choice and that event more than anything else has convinced me of the existence of God. There have been other smaller events over the years. Nothing that I would expect to be taken as conclusive proof of the existence of a God, nor that I will ever try to present as such. These experience merely confirmed for me personally the existence of a God. So in this world of conflicting ideas, I have developed my own philosophy towards life. That actions towards the world, such as recycling, cooking, building, gardens, math, universal exploration, and anything else involving manipulating objects should use scientific ideas to guide behavior. However, when dealing with other living beings use the principles of kindness and charity that are taught by religion. It’s a sometimes difficult balance but it is a good one and a balance that I intend to follow for the rest of my life. By Haze Nguyen
As the homeless man enters the store, he is thankful for how crowded it is inside just as much as he is for the heat. The store employees are far too busy dealing with the frantic shoppers to notice his disheveled appearance, a clear contrast to the customers around the store. The man’s clothes are rumpled and dirty consisting of a long sleeve shirt and a frayed jacket, his old sneakers have holes worn through at the toe and the hat on top of his head is long past its expiration date. His pants are in slightly better condition, without holes but worn too thin to protect against the bitter wind.Though he feels out of place next to the clean apparel and the tidy shelves, he makes his way further to the back of the store where he thinks he will be able to find a place to temporarily settle down. The warmth that enveloped him when he first came into the shop fades to a duller heat that slowly creeps down his limbs and returns the feeling to his tingling frozen palms, but have yet to reach the tips of his seemingly permanently frozen fingertips. There are less people near the back then in the front of the store. The man contemplates moving back towards the front to prolong his stay in the heated building. Shielded by more people would lessen his chance of being revealed. However, the pull of the warmth lingers more in the back than the front where movements of the doors let in the winter chill. In this moment, the man values the quality of his newfound warmth over the stretch of his stay in the store before he is chased out. Because of the small size of the store there is no bathroom where he can seek sanctuary from the merciless eyes of the store owner. In the city, none seem to take pity on the homeless even in weather so cold that the sky threatens snow. The threat of the cold winter air is not intimidating enough to prompt the man to steal. Being in the store itself puts him in danger of being accused of more than just loitering. Still in the back of his mind he contemplates the pros and cons of the heat that a single scarf could provide and longs for what he cannot have. Often, the man finds himself longing for simple things, like small amounts of cash, food, and clothes. On the more rare side, a deeper ache surfaces during winter time. The homeless man is tormented by a simple yearning to once again be reunited with his family. Prominence of this feeling coincides with a time where he is short of work to do in the frigid city, this man feels the loneliness of his life worse at this time in the year. The man leans the back of his legs against a lower table. He drops his small backpack on the floor next to his foot and watches the store around him. From the back of the store he can see through the glass display cases and out into the streets where the hustle and bustle outside mirrors the inside of the store. The store, which closes in one hour, shows no signs of stopping operation even with the rapidly dimming skies. Through the street lights that have just turned on, he can see white puffs start to fall, slowly at first and then faster until they would cover the roads if not for the moving crowds outside. As more people wander their way towards the back, the man is nudged against the table and he tucks his feet under and stands straighter to make more room. Among the people present, there are very few men. The majority of customers are women. A couple feet away from the homeless man is a woman and holding her hand is a young girl with short curly hair that catches the homeless man's eye. Memory of similar dark curly hair tugs painfully in his heart, and amplifies the ever-present sense of longing. He continues to watch her, swinging her mother's arm as she shops. Next to her mother she is small, her head just reaches her mother's hip. She is still fully bundled up with a coat, snow boots, a hat, mittens and a scarf. She is bright despite the gloomy weather and the abundance of layers. Already the homeless man is drawn to her. He sees in her a glimpse at his past and he does not want to look away. She turns around. Her mother is still facing away browsing through the apparel on the shelf, but she contorts her body to look at him. Her head is nearly upside down and she is making a silly face, her tongue sticking out. They stare at each other. Her mother is too busy to pay attention and the young girl stands, turns around to wave, wobbling on small feet. The homeless man freezes already feeling out of place in the clean store, and he does not immediately interact with the child. Even with good intentions he knows onlookers may misunderstand their interaction. He understands that people, given his current state, may look down on him but gives a small wave to girl anyway. Again, they stare at each other. The man whips his head to the source when someone calls out aggressively. He is taken aback by the forwardness of the employee who grabs his arm. The man is told he must leave, he is crowding up the store and his presence is unpleasing to the shoppers. The homeless man knows that it was only a matter of time before he would get called out. The woman must be the manager of the store if she had been so forward. He accepts that he must take it seriously and nods. He leans down to pick up his bag and catches the young girl still watching. It seems she is the only one who notices his presence in the store. He is not really asked to leave because he is a bother, merely because he is homeless. He scoops up his bag and walks toward the entrance the same way he came. Closely behind him is the store manager, and even further behind the man is the little girl. She is still watching. He trudges his way towards the front. Through the glass display cases in the front of the shop he can see the flurry of snow has picked up. He dreads the moment he will lose the heat that came from staying in the store. Hands on the glass door, he pushes himself out into the winter weather, without proper attire he will get wet and quickly colder. The door clatters as it shuts behind him and he starts walking. There are many people still traveling on the sidewalk and the snow falls on top of their coats and hats. There are many stores still open, but getting later into the night places start having less customers. Nowhere he could go now without getting turned away immediately, he pauses standing on the street. No one pays him any attention. The homeless man lets out a sigh, his breath puffing out in a big white cloud of his breath in front of his face. There is a jingle of the door behind him followed by quick feet. Behind him is the little girl who is running in his direction. She stops in front of him, eyes trained on her hands. He does not think she should be out here, with him. They are strangers. She still does not look up, working the mittens off of her small hands. He watches her in silence, letting her work, wondering. When the young girl manages to wiggle off both the left and right hand she then looks up at the man. She tilts her head, then looks up at the sky. Her naked hand points up at the sky. “Snow,” she says. Then she looks back holding out her mittens. “Snow,” she repeats. There is a purposeful look in her eye. The homeless man looks down at her. He does not understand how she knows that he needs help, though she may not understand that her small mittens are not big enough to help the homeless man. As young as she is she senses that something is not right. He shakes his head and points to the store door, not wanting to keep her outside. Looking straight back at him she reaches towards his hands and opens it. He stills. The young girls hands are still warm on his, despite taking off the mittens. She unfurls his hands and places the small pair of mittens in his palm. “It’s cold outside.” She nods. He nods back. His hands are shaking. In front of him is his daughter, but it is not. He does not know her nor does she know him. She lets go, and runs back inside the door. The bell jingles, the door shuts and she is gone. The mittens are too small and his hands will stay cold, but his heart is warm enough to get him through the winter. By Haze Nguyen
It’s endless, I can’t get off I’m unsatisfied, It’s not enough I’ve tried, it’s true By giving me more, I want more from you I’m pulled, I react I can’t even handle myself I take it back This is a curse I put on myself This feeling is all I know, I’m surrounded, it’s like snow, This feeling is all I have, I’m surrounded but I’m cold I wake up and I check I’m at your beck and call If I fall, I fall, I can’t escape You’re my paradise, I want you all You hold me tight, I cannot focus I cannot work, is it worth it? In the moment I’m content But after I’m so empty This feeling is all I know, I’m surrounded, it’s like snow, This feeling is all I have, I’m surrounded but I’m cold You’re my pied piper, you’re drawing me away You ruin as you whisper, in my head where you stay My ears tune in, you know, I know I turn to you for consolation Though I'm not whole You make me feel okay I live to hear your sweet calling Out to me and many others Your intentions which may have started good Has become an inescapable culture This feeling is all I know, I’m surrounded, it’s like snow, This feeling is all I have, I’m surrounded but I’m cold The feeling is taking over, it’s somehow just like snow This feeling is all I know, I’m surrounded but I’m cold. |
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